


Rippin' Jimmy

by mightbeanasshole



Category: Better Call Saul (TV), Breaking Bad
Genre: Alternate Universe: Aesthetic Weed Blogger Jesse Pinkman, Drug Use, First Time, M/M, puns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-20 01:58:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5988223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbeanasshole/pseuds/mightbeanasshole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After he acquires six new clients in one day from the same messageboard-centered weed bust, Saul Goodman finds himself conducting after-hours research on his <i>stellar</i> new group of customers. A meandering path leads him to the YouTube channel of local aesthetic weed blogger Jesse Pinkman -- and Saul finds himself reluctant to look away from the briefs-clad, bong-ripping, disarmingly charming vlogger. </p><p>The fact that he can't seem to turn the videos off is harmless, Saul assures himself. It's not like it would amount to anything, anyway. But a chance encounter puts the oblivious vlogger right in the path of his newest fan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: ABQ Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written with the handsome, talented Chester. Find them at [@partyinthemysterymachine](http://partyinthemysterymachine.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, and find me there at [@bingoricopimento](http://bingoricopimento.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> (Oh -- and [they make terrific visual art](http://partyinthemysterymachine.tumblr.com/tagged/my%20art))

It's 4 a.m. and Saul is _absolutely_ down the rabbit hole with this one.

 _It's research_ , he insists silently to a dim, empty living room as he clicks the play button. This – what he's doing? At home? This is research.

Everybody does research. Especially attorneys: investigating the darkest hairline cracks of the world for their esteemed clients. With a smug smile and brief shrug of his brows, he makes a mental note: with the right line of reasoning, these five hours he's been in front of the computer might even be billable.

_Hello, payday._

He'll mull over that later. From his laptop, there's coming an increasingly familiar chuckle, a figure moving into view. Saul repositions himself in his chair and prepares for the introduction.

"What up YouTube, _YouTuuuuube_!"

The shot is haphazardly framed: a leather couch looking like it might hemorrhage stuffing at any moment, lots of natural light streaming in through windows beyond the shot, a coffee table that's seen better days, and – most importantly – the vlogger himself. All in stunning HD. What a time to be alive.

"What up – Jesse: comin' to you from Chucks420RoundhouseKicks – the 18-and-over ABQ channel designed for cannabis patients and adults! What the HELL is up?"

Saul's heard the lazy lilt of the intro enough times tonight that he can almost recite it along with him like an anthem at this point.

The vlogger is now in view, animated and bouncing on the couch in the middle of the shot – and as in all of his videos, he's nearly naked. He's wearing a pair of gaudy boxer briefs with neon blue flames, cut high up on his thighs and slung low across the V of his hips.

(After watching ten or more videos at this point, Saul wonders for a fleeting moment how the guy must be able to afford his heating bill each month before remembering they're _both_ wrapped in the dry, horrible heat of Albuquerque. Must be the ghost of Cicero left in him.)

The garment leaves _very_ little to the imagination – but hear Saul out on this one. This is _research._ He’s not into this, or anything. Simply not his jive, he reminds himself as he tips back a lukewarm slag of cheap scotch.

Saul's had an influx of clients this week fighting possession-with-intents. When he'd gotten more new clients with exactly the same charge in one day than he could count on one hand, he'd asked the last one to kindly elucidate this pattern. Looks like Saul's name had come up on a messageboard when some of Albuquerque's biggest, brightest, and most visible street-level dealers had been getting antsy early in the week. (Not exactly something he’d be bragging about any time soon, but hey: their money spends.)

Today, their paranoia had been confirmed: at least six of them had been pinched in a county-wide sting.

(It was their fault, really. Anyone with more than a lousy pair of dice rattling around in their heads wouldn’t have gotten caught.)

Nobody at APD was willing to clue Saul in, of course, but a little poking around always pays off. The last slow-as-molasses stoner he'd played counselor to that day had scribbled a URL on the back of a napkin for him. He’d waited patiently at the steep hourly expense of his new client, and without the slightest pang of guilt for the minutes ticking by until the guy had remembered how words were spelled.

Enter the ABQblaze subreddit. Enter ABQBlaze moderator and aesthetic weed blogger of some note, Chucks420RoundhouseKicks.

Or Jesse, to his friends.

"Aight man, in this one? Fifteen dollar bowl of weed. We got one gram of some artisanal ABQ Blue right here –" and he holds a dry-looking nugget up close to the camera that takes a few seconds to adjust to perspective. "We about to load the whole bowl and smoke it."

The kid on the screen can't be more than – what, twenty-two? Twenty-three? Saul had started clicking around the subreddit with innocent intentions. It couldn't hurt to learn a little about the subculture. After all: he hadn't known that aesthetic weed bloggers were even A Thing until about 8 p.m. today. Maybe, he'd told himself, with further research he could see if there's anything he can use to build a defense.

 _Research._ Purely academic. Pedagogic and professional.

Yeah. Saul was learning _an awful lot_.

Goodman is learning a _hell_ of a lot about his lack of willpower, for one. Jesse-the-weed-vlogger’s extensive and impressive collection of brightly colored, garish, life-ruining boxer briefs has Saul leagues closer to the edge than he'd be willing to admit to himself without a whole hell of a lot more scotch in his system. He can't deny he'd have been proud to own a few pairs as a twenty-something, and to the grim delight of his late forties, he’s still impressed they’re in circulation.

But, hey, like he’d said: this wasn’t his jive. He was only expanding on his notes.

Saul doesn't like acknowledging the depth of his casual self-loathing. And yet _here he is_ : considering the erotic potential of long, dragging bong hits that had been heretofore unexplored in Saul's life.

He half wonders if Jesse had been stupid enough to get bagged today too, and if the (admittedly endearing) scumbag is sitting in county lockup right now with his own accomplished group of clientele.

If so, who had Jesse lawyered up with? Lucky asshole.

He clearly hadn't called goddamned Saul. Shouldn't he know by now? Goodman is only _all over_ late night TV – and Jesse doesn't strike him as the daytime TV type.

"If at any time you should enjoy this video, make sure you give this video the big _thumbs up_ – and if you haven't subscribed to Chucks420RoundhouseKicks already? What's wrong with you? What're you doing here?" He knits sandy eyebrows together, feigning shock and disgust before going wide-eyed and laughing. "Nah, I'm fuckin with you. Subscribe for more if you want, it's whatever. Let's get it."

Saul drags a hand down his face and reaches to take the last sip of tepid scotch in his glass. Fuck Saul Goodman right down the middle.

There's a part of his brain telling him to turn on actual pornography – get off and go to bed – but there's something far too endearing about this kid for Saul to pull himself away.

So much for this not ringing his bell. He should have abandoned that weak excuse the third video in. As the chair creaks from an uncomfortable rearrangement of his legs, he grimaces past the ache of his bad knees. The tension in his whole stiff body, in his wrecked brain, manifests in his knit brows as he frowns back at the screen.

A ridiculously wide, white smile cuts across Jesse's face as he looks into the camera in between packing the bowl of a huge, ostentatious bong.

"This video is gonna go into the Crazy Hit Library Playlist, right?" He smiles and bobs his head in time with the dull bass throbbing in the background from another room as he works, worrying his bottom lip absentmindedly in between chattering on about how old the gram is, where he got it, something about "crumbleweed." It doesn't matter – Saul is lost in it.

Times had _really_ changed since he'd last found himself toking up in Cicero. Apparently – and Saul has learned this through his _research_ – part of what puts the "aesthetic" in aesthetic weed blogging is doing bong rips in your underwear. It seems to be more of a phenomenon for women than men, but Christ, he thinks, _if you've got it, work it_. (Here’s a thought process he can thank four glasses of scotch for in front of a microphone.)

And Jesse's got it. The kid's all spare, fit muscles and skinny legs, a tattoo snaking across his narrow chest that's just tacky enough to be endearing, ropey forearms and soft-looking belly, slept in soft-looking hair _\--_ oh _shit._ Saul groans and digs his knuckles into his eye sockets, seeing stars.

He looks again just in time to watch Jesse push the tip of a pink tongue between his lips, catch his lip between his teeth, and pick up the glass piece.

"Fifteen Dollar Bowl of Weed," he announces, flicking on a lighter. "What's up."

Saul still has his pants on. This is _irrefutably_ research.


	2. Sticky Icky

The buzz of early morning hits ‘n coffee is far behind Jesse as he steps into Target -- but even in this soberer-than-usual state, he wonders if the lights _really_ need to be this bright. 

Who designs these consumer hell-holes?

Honestly, seems like they’d sell more shit if they invested in, like, a little _mood lighting._ Sober or not, nobody can honestly say they appreciate this lighting. The store is bathed in white-hot fluorescent bee stings, illuminating every aisle in its hateful glow. It’s a buzzkill even without a goddamn buzz.

Jesse’s got a wad of cash and an abysmally empty cupboard right now and he’d needed to get out of his apartment, so. Right. _Target._ It’s the classier version of Wal-Mart, designed for people who dig the concept, but don’t hate themselves as much. He just hadn’t really thought it through -- the clusterfuck of colors all a little sharper than they ought to be under that light and the eye-catching red end caps of shit he most definitely did not need but goddamn did he want. And at midday on a weekday, the place is mostly deserted. No screaming, godawful kids. No shuffling old people to get stuck behind. He’s king of goddamn Target this morning -- soon to be snack king.

Everyone, make way for the new god almighty.

Yeah. If it were just a _little_ less bright, Jesse Impulse Buy Pinkman would be in his fuckin’ _element_.

His first stop -- once he gets through the distracting minefield of toys and seasonal bullshit just inside the door -- is that one aisle with all of the ridiculous plastic barrels of snacks. (As a sidenote, Jesse thinks bitterly to himself, the $1 bins can go fuck themselves. He can’t take back the hours he stood rifling through them.) The snack aisle is only aisle that matters, if he’s being honest. Standard fare: you got your cheese balls, your trail mix, your weird pretzel products. Pretzel sticks and chocolate covered pretzels and little pretzel bullets filled with peanut butter. 

Shit. Peanut butter. _That_ is some shit that would hit the spot, Jesse thinks.

He swivels and makes a beeline for the pb aisle. He’ll toss in a jar or two and then get right back here. 

Jesse’s face falls, though, when he finds himself in front of the actual nut butters section. He stares at the options -- at least a hundred -- like he’s staring down the motherboard at mission goddamned control. This is awful. When did peanut butter get this… _complicated?_

Because there’s peanut butter -- right, sure -- but then there’s all this non-Nutella poser shit. What even is that shit? PB2, some kinda powdered fake shit? Would you snort that or…?  Christ, even Jif is doing it! Fuckin’ imposters -- and then it’s like, half of these are hazelnut and the other half are completely outing themselves as chocolate. Really, do you go with classy or _honest_? 

And ok, but... almond butter. Is that even good? _Could_ that be good? There’s like… there’s like a dozen almond butters -- that means it _has_ to be decent. It’s organic and  all-natural. That means something pretentious or another. But like. OK down here, what are these? Condom shaped, giant ketchup packets of these “nut butters”? 

Jesse stares indignantly at them, plastered with “Justin’s Almond Butter” on the shiny packet and not an ounce of regret in the font. Are people just completely open about eating this shit directly? Alright well… ok fair enough, that’s… not a bad idea. Alright, fuck washing some more spoons but..

_ Jesse _ . Focus, man. On task on task, wake up. What’s the directive? Peanut butter. That’s what he’s here for, he’s gotta stick to the name of the game. Speaking of, though: the fuck are these names? True Nut? _Mighty Nut._ Holy shit, like, was no one in their right mind when this was approved in that snoozer board meeting? Hold up buddy, back it up to the task. But, shit! Is it good for these to be all separated like this… because. Complete offense, gross, but also maybe those are like -\-  and thanks to the stoner part of his brain for the thought -- the _dankest_ peanut butters.

Jesse picks one jar up -- one that is well-mixed -- and then reaches for one where the oil has visibly separated, weighing them against each other. 

Shit, man. The separated one is heavier. Maybe that shit _is_ better. It’s supposed to be healthy, he reminds himself, not bothering to check anything but the front of the thin paper label toting _organic_ in fancy green letters. Christ, who can even live life with all these choices? 

“I hear you there,” someone says next to Jesse, nearly springing him out of his oversized Ed Hardy hoodie. Just how the _fuck_ how long had he been standing there? “These, uh, these _nut butters,_ right?” 

The thin twenty-something takes that second to wonder if his subconscious likes getting the best of him with forcing unaware grumbles. And to that, fuck you, subconscious.

Jesse frowns deeply and turns to take in the man to his left. 

If he’d been worrying about the colors in the aisles before, it was clearly just because he hadn’t run into this guy yet. Jesse doesn’t pretend to be an arbiter of fashion but… _yikes._ The man is wearing a charcoal suit -- which, fine, off to a boring enough start -- but then all of Jesse’s mental processing power starts to overheat at the eighty-some-odd shades of pink, red, and orange that shouldn’t have been invented engaged in an unappealing gang bang all over the front of this guy’s chest. His tie looks like a grandma’s wallpaper having a bad peyote experience and it’s all downhill from there. 

The man clears his throat, bouncing softly on his heels -- and Jesse remembers himself, doing his best not to stare openly, shaking his head a little in disbelief as if that could get the image of this crime against aesthetics out of his mind’s eye. 

“It’s a lot to take in,” the man says, smiling; and only now does Jesse really remember that there’s a sentient being attached to all those clashing colors. The man’s open expression and raised brows remind Jesse of a used car salesman -- the type with _really_ enthusiastic commercials that run at 3 a.m. -- and he feels vaguely familiar. Blue eyes, brown hair -- a little forgettable without the outfit attached.

There’d be no surprise if he _did_ have shameful 3 a.m. commercials.

The stranger frowns deeply, his eyes flashing down to the two jars of peanut butter in Jesse’s hands.

Jesse pulls back his upper lip with brief distaste. What’s this guy’s deal? Does he really want to discuss the finer points of how fucked this modern-day peanut butter situation is? 

"Uh... yeah... it's whack,” Jesse ventures. 

Call him Miss Cleo. As soon as Jesse starts talking, he looks relieved.

“Like, why the fuck do you need all this?” Jesse continues. The man nods -- and Christ, he’s hanging on Jesse’s every word like he’s espousing some deep nut butter truth that needed to be shared with the rest of the world. It spurs Jesse on in spite of himself. “Just, it’s fucking peanut butter! That's all we need. Fuck this." 

The stranger keeps his eyes on Jesse as he places the two jars back on the shelf. Ok -- _now_ it’s weird. Is this some kind of voyeur fetish?

Oh. _Oh._ The guy thinks Jesse is gonna shoplift. Right -- yep, there we go. Fucker. Every goddamn time… Jesse bites his bottom lip hard and stoops to grab a plastic jar of Jif off the bottom shelf. It’s low sodium and he won’t care about the health benefits of it in the end, but fuck this unfair profiling shit. And for the record, Jesse thinks, it’s embarrassing that Target couldn’t set their secret security guard up with a better outfit than _that_. Budgets these days are appalling.

He tosses the jar in between the Monster Trail Mix and the Birthday Cake Oreos before turning to frown and give his best _You Don’t Know Fuckall,_ you shit-for-brains likely-secretive-underwear-sniffer look to the stranger. 

“Well have a great time with your nut butter crisis,” Jesse says, doing a sarcastic little half bow and spinning to go. 

“Hey! You -- uh,” the guy starts, and Jesse is 110% done with this already; he needed his snacks thirty minutes ago and he needs to wander Target, free and unfettered. 

“I’m not stealing it, okay?” Jesse asks, sticking out his neck and holding his red, holey basket out to the guy. “I’m gonna take the Jif up to the front and pay for all of this. We cool?”

“No -- I -- Christ, kid, do I look like security?” the guy asks, eyebrows furrowed together. 

_ That is  _ exactly _what a security asshole would say_ , Jesse thinks. 

“Then _what_ dude? You need help making a choice? Here: Jif, man,” Jesse says, retrieving the jar noisily from underneath a bag of Doritos and lobbing it underhanded at him. If this guy is so worried about his fucking plastic jar of peanut butter, let him keep it. Jesse is at least a little satisfied by the way the guy scrambles to catch it.

“I think you got the wrong idea, here,” the nervous stranger says, offering the jar of peanut butter back to Jesse, like a truce. “I was just going to ask you if you knew where I could find…” At this, the sorely-disguised peacock trails off, his free hand moving in the air as if he could retrieve his missing train of thought by physically plucking it out of the ether. Christ, he’s really negotiating something up there, Jesse thinks.

“Do you smoke?” the old man asks abruptly, brows knit as if he’s prepared to apologize for the question before Jesse can even answer.

Jesse stares him down at this point. That wasn’t where he saw this conversation going. He takes a harder look as the man under scrutiny frowns deeply. They’re back on Jesse’s turf now, and he straightens his spine a little, digging hands into his empty hoodie pockets. He lets the guy sweat it with the jar of Jif extended out between them for a long, painful beat. 

“What, like a cig?” Jesse asks -- and he can’t bite down the smirk that’s inching across his face. This is probably going to be the funniest shit that will happen to him all day and it’s a nice turn from the thought of getting hassled by security.

The man closes his eyes, clutching the jar like it’s the only thing mooring him to reality. Even though his eyes are closed, Jesse fans out his hand for an answer. 

“Not cigarettes,” he says, finally. He looks like a man on the way to a firing squad and he’s starting to sweat, even in the well-conditioned air. 

“What then?” 

The man cocks his head and works the inside of his cheek like he’s tempted to slug Jesse here for the nut butters and all the world to see. He’s gone white-knuckled around the jar of Jif, which is warping a little in his grip. Jesse snorts, sets his basket on the ground, and reaches out to pry the Jif from his hand.

“Sorry man, can’t help you out if you don’t even know what you’re lookin’ for.” 

“Reefer --” the guy blurts, abruptly, and it’s all Jesse can do to hold his shit together and not drop the jar himself as the stranger babbles out most ridiculous old-man list of synonyms he’s ever heard. “Grass, mary jane, dona juana, ganja, herb, dope, acapulco gold, wacky tobacky, sticky icky --” 

“Holy shit,” Jesse says through a laugh, holding up a hand to stop the torrent of street names that sounds like it came out of some 1960s cop handbook. Jesse throws a conspiratorial glance over his shoulder more for the guy’s benefit than any real paranoia. “You mean you want to buy _weed_ from me?”

He can’t hold the laugh in as the stranger’s cheeks burn an impressive cranberry red. In fact, it’s everything Jesse can do not to fold in on himself like a supernova and implode at the fact that this guy has just said _wacky tobacky_ out loud, here, in the 21st century, in fucking reality. Pinch him because surely he’s dreaming.

“Okay, okay, _shut up_ ,” the man grumbles, looking around them. “How much?”

This motherfucker is just _incredible_. Who let you out on your own, he wonders. Are you lost, you tall, colorful man? Jesse is actually _coughing_ , this hurts that much. He’s gonna have a fucking six pack by the time this is over because he can feel the fucking burn working right now.

“You done?” the guy asks when Jesse pauses for a breath. When he looks up, the stranger has one pointy eyebrow hitched and a deep frown lining his thin mouth. 

“Do I seriously look like I have chronic just, like, _on me_ to sell you?” Jesse asks, incredulous. “Like, ouch dude. Is it the hoodie? The beanie?  My fucking haul? Profiling hurts us all.”

“No -- no!” he says, already negotiating a furious backpedal -- and _man_ it’s been a long time since Jesse has seen anyone over the age of 15 so invested in securing some weed. “No, I was just -- absolutely not, no. You look….” 

“Then _what,_ dadcore?”

"Look, see, total misunderstanding here,” the guy says, spreading his palms in a plea. “Of course you don't look like a little ratty chronic dealer, you're -- you're a bright, upstanding young man, I can tell just by looking at you."

“Wow,” Jesse says, blinking slow. 

"I look at you and I see a... resourceful... youth." The guy is cringing at himself even as he talks. "Who would _know_.... you know. Where to... If one _were_ to seek out... "

“Some _‘sticky icky’_?” Jesse says, finishing his sentence because he can’t watch this train wreck unfold any further. Even Jesse Pinkman has a heart in there somewhere. The man just nods and Jesse scrubs a palm up and down his face, deciding what to do. 

“Aight, listen,” Jesse says -- as if there’s any chance at this point the other man is going to do anything _but_ hang on his every word. He retrieves the basket from the floor and holds it out to the stranger. “Buy me my food and we'll cut a deal. You owe me because I just had to stand here and live through… whatever _that_ just was.” 

He’s shocked when the man takes the basket from his hands without hesitation. 

“Sold,” he declares through a smile. 

“I’m not, like, _done_ yet either. We gotta get back to the snack aisle.” 

He’s smiling. Jesse just bartered theoretical access to weed in exchange for novelty snacks and this whackjob is actually _fucking smiling_ , practically bouncing on his heels.

“Lead the way,” the stranger says.

Nah, this day couldn’t get any better than this.


	3. Chapter 3

There are rules to the game of life. Rule number one: When the universe delivers a perfect gift to you, you don’t look the universe in its face and say, “No thanks, sweetheart.” 

This rule especially applies when that gift is your masturbation fantasy _du jour_ made flesh, mumbling to himself there in the aisles of Target. 

And yeah, yes, _sure:_ Saul had come to terms with it after he’d watched the umpteenth vlog. He’s well aware that he’s a compromised, broken man. No one is arguing against it. But at some point, he thinks, you have to level with yourself, admit that you’re a garbage human being, and introduce the half-your-age vlogger with long eyelashes and straight teeth to the other unsuspecting souls inhabiting your spank bank. 

To no one’s surprise, Saul can’t pretend like he has a plan here. No, he’s not sure what horrible impulse exists in himself that allowed him to fake his way through that initial bumbling conversation after recognizing the kid and come out on the other side relatively unscathed. He’s a jack of all swindling trades, charisma and the fallacy of confidence ranking high on his marks. 

But Saul Goodman isn’t here to ask questions and he _most certainly_ isn’t here to give the middle finger to the universe for this chance encounter. He’s tempted fate before, and fate didn’t hesitate to rise to the occasion -- metaphorically pushing him into the dumpster like a nerd at school time and time again.

Saul leads the way without looking back, cutting a line through the parking lot as he grips the flimsy plastic shopping bags like they’re the only thing mooring him to reality right now. He’s not sure -- to be perfectly clear -- what reality even _is,_ but if it includes more divine interventions like running into Jesse goddamned Chucks420roundhousekicks, he’ll continue to engage. 

\---

Jesse had seemed more at ease the moment they agreed to do something illegal together, and he’d practically bounced to the aisle with novelty snacks. At first he’d throw something into the basket -- Saul had taken over custody of both baskets by that point -- and search Saul’s face for a reaction. 

Saul has a good poker face. But he hadn’t needed it. If buying shit food is what’ll get him on Jesse’s good side then Saul is ready to become the king of shit food mountain. He’ll accept the mantle; he will bear this burden. Heavy is the head that wears the crown. 

He didn’t blink an eye at the pack of chili lime beef jerky, snack size Twix bars, Milky Way nuggets, or the the enormous movie style bag of popcorn. These are nothing if not tame, and typical, of a hungry young man. When Jesse tossed a generous pack of Monster Trail Mix, gyros flavored potato chips and the questionable red velvet Tasty Kake puddles in obnoxious packaging, he smirked. He even laughed to himself when a ‘healthy’ option was chosen for Keebler’s Simply Made Shortbread cookies were dropped in next to the long box of M&M rice crispy treats. This was all fine, until Jesse yanked open the milk storage and challenged Saul’s pride by staring him directly in the eyes as he dropped a carton of Peeps-endorsed, flavored Spring Egg Nog into the overflowing basket.

They had a brief Mexican standoff over this vile addition to the baskets, and for a split second, Saul reconsidered his earlier proposal about covering the cost of his otherwise impressive haul. All was forgiven the moment the stoner prodigy dumped a case of mini cupcakes and a box of one of Entenmann’s “new” creations (what exactly is “new” about party cake?), though the damage of the not-Christmas seasonal egg nog could never be erased.

High or not, some things should never be consumed.

By the time they’d reached the checkout line, Jesse was bobbing and ebullient and Saul was fighting a very serious concern about the kid’s chances of getting scurvy. At least there was Vitamin C in the orange soda. Right?

\---

In the parking lot, Saul makes a mental note to text Francesca to cancel his afternoon appointments. He has no inkling of where this is going, but he hopes at the very least he’ll be waylaid long enough to completely halt productivity in the office. And, hell: who’s to say this won’t end up meaning business, too? The kid is out and walking free today, but it’s only a matter of time before APD stumbles upon Jesse’s catalogue of barely-clothed, nearly-obscene wet, sucking bong hits and decides to scoop him up. 

And then? Well. He’ll know who he better call. 

Saul fishes for his keys, still not looking behind him on the off chance that Jesse is an insomnia-and-heat-induced hallucination, and as they approach his car, he pops the locks with a press of a worn button. The white Cadillac shines in the desert sun like a bleached steer skull on the set of a Western. Behold his pride, and his joy. 

“Ho-hooly shit,” Jesse breathes behind him. Saul throws a glance over his shoulder and watches him hop a few quick paces towards the car. “ _Nice_ sleazemobile!” 

For a good beat, Jesse makes Saul adequately embarrassed of his own car. He’d worked tirelessly to get to the point where he could afford this bold white Cadillac, complete with all the bells and whistles a man of his stature is deserving of. To this day, Saul toys with the idea of glistening, fancy hubcaps, but at least there’s a sliver of his questionable pride to stop him from making an absolute fool of himself. A little bit of a fool is enough for him at this point in time. Let’s not get too crazy.

Saul shoots Jesse a flat look over the dusty, hot top of the car and sits heavily into the driver’s seat. After throwing the bags onto the back floor, he fires up the engine -- realizing a second too late that the horrible music he’d been listening to was still turned up to karaoke-volume, right where he’d left it.

The song picks up -- “Margaritaville,” Christ, Saul could disappear in this moment -- and he fumbles to turn it down, every note of the flourishing steel drums and strum of the guitar punctuating his humiliation at a solid 90 decibels. 

Jesse slaps his hand away from the knob, laughing -- delighted, apparently. 

“Nah man, bump it,” he says, turning it up even louder than before. “Adult contemporary, I dig it.” 

He bounces a little and sings along hoarsely with the last few lines, grinning at Saul’s deep frown over the console. The kid gets more and more endearing by the second, as if Saul were lacking in new reasons to hate his life lately. He lets Jesse get two more lines deep into the chorus before turning it down to a reasonable volume and shifting into gear.

“Yo, hold tight a sec,” Jesse says, buckling himself in and producing a phone. “I need to send a few texts but I get hella carsick.” 

“Consider the horses held,” Saul says, shifting the Cadillac back in park, fishing for his own phone, and unlocking it to text Francesca.

_ >>SAUL: Something came up. Cancel me out, lock up, and take the afternoon off. _

The reply comes quick:

_ >>FRANCESCA: Oh Lord... _

She knows him too well. The woman has a sixth sense for his shitty decisions. She could run a daytime TV show with her all-too-good skills like this. He’ll have to come up with a good excuse or risk actually telling her _the truth_ tomorrow. Who has time for that? He’ll figure something out far before then.

Jesse taps furiously against his screen for a few seconds longer before locking the phone and beaming over at Saul. 

“Had to rearrange some appointments,” Jesse explains through a shit-eating, crooked smile. 

Christ, he’s even better looking in person and it’s _awful._

“Yeah? Cancelling a date for me? You’re too kind,”  Saul grins back, a little dumbstruck by the way Jesse’s raking his eyes over him and smirking. 

“Definitely,” Jesse says. “I’m smokin’ you out.” 

“Like you could,” Saul replies with an arch of his brow, throwing the Cadillac into reverse and easing out of the primo parking spot. 

\---

The car ride is quick -- not surprising since the kid had clearly walked to Target -- and on Jesse’s direction, Saul eases them into a parking spot in front of a row of decent enough apartments. His Cadillac looks almost as conspicuous as Saul feels as he retrieves the groceries -- and he uses that term _loosely_ \-- and follows Jesse up to the second story. 

Jesse steps in and immediately starts making himself comfortable, kicking off sneakers, discarding his beanie on a chair, and pulling off his hoodie. Something catches in Saul’s throat as it occurs to him that maybe Jesse _never_ stays fully clothed in his apartment and it isn’t just a vlogging thing -- but Jesse’s last move is to strip off his socks before pacing into the room, regrettably clothed. 

Saul steps out of his shoes and leaves them next to Jesse’s at the door, erring on the side of politeness as he looks around. 

It’s a standard, entry-level apartment. A little cramped, but not bad with its dated kitchen and nondescript carpet. A little cluttered but not dirty, really. There’s the unmistakable, faint scent of stale weed and cigarette smoke. Kid’s definitely a bachelor and it doesn’t look like there’s a second bedroom hiding anywhere. 

Being in the apartment feels vaguely like stepping onto a TV show set -- because just a few steps away, there’s that unmistakable leather couch, thrift store throw pillows, the coffee table, the big windows letting in the afternoon light. A familiar bass beat picks up as Jesse plugs an aux cord into his phone and hooks it to an oversized soundsystem. 

“So just, uh, put these in the kitchen?” Saul asks, holding up the bags and feeling a little forgotten as Jesse moves around his own apartment.

“Yeah man, anywhere’s fine -- just throw ‘em on the counter,” Jesse says, slinging a glance over his shoulder and hitching his chin towards the kitchen before going back to the important task of choosing between a dozen identical-sounding dubstep albums. 

Saul sighs and crosses to the kitchen, shifting an empty box of Cinnabon Swirl breakfast cereal and several beer bottles with his elbow to make room for the bags. Should he unpack this veritable diabetes smorgasbord and attempt to put it away? he wonders. He sneers disdainfully at that sorry excuse for egg nog, resolving to at least put that in the fridge. If it wouldn’t potentially upset Jesse, he’d leave it on the counter to fester.

When he turns, Jesse is propped up on a stool, leaning intently over the bar and examining him again like Saul’s presence in his apartment is some sort of fever dream.

_ Feeling’s mutual, kid, _ he thinks hard at Jesse, swiping the back of his hand over lips that are suddenly uncomfortably dry. 

“So tell me the truth,” Jesse says -- and _Christ_ , the truth is absolutely _the last_ topic Saul wants to broach right now. He smothers the puff of panic and concentrates on looking like an open book. “Are you like a _really shitty_ or a really fucking great undercover cop?"

Saul nearly chokes around the half-strangled “Wow” he issues at the question.

“You have to tell me if you’re a cop,” Jesse continues. “It’s in the constitution or something.” 

It takes real effort to stop frowning and start making words.

“Do I _look_ like a cop?” 

Jesse’s mouth drops open and he points an accusing finger. 

“Avoiding the question!” he says, like he’s really onto something. “This is, like, entrapment.” 

“No, listen,” Saul says quickly. “I am decidedly _not_ a cop.” 

Jesse rubs his chin, mulling it over. 

“Yeah, alright,” he says finally. He keeps staring at Saul, though, like he’s doing some sort of long division, and the longer they keep this staring match going, the more painfully aware Saul is of the fact that he _really_ has no plan here. Finally it’s too much and he rubs dry hands together before fanning out his fingers and hitching his eyebrows.

“So. Doobage?”

Jesse wheezes hard in response, laughing and pitching forward so much that Saul’s vaguely concerned he’s going to hit the bar counter with his chin.

“ _Doobage,_ holy shit,” he says, when he regains himself. He keeps talking as he moves, crossing to a cabinet where he retrieves the setup that Saul is intimately familiar with: a cheap lighter, a little plastic mat, and a squat glass jar. “Was it weird to time travel to the present day from wherever you actually came from or what?” 

“Yeah the ride was kinda bumpy,” he shrugs, one hand gesturing vaguely. “Hit Elvis, passed a couple aliens, saw what really happened to JFK. You wouldn’t believe what the government is covering up.”

Jesse leaves the cabinet open and plops down on the couch to start breaking down the weed, throwing his technicolor companion a sideways look that plainly says, “okay, weirdo.” As Jesse returns focus to his task, Saul watches the curve of his spine under the thin T-shirt and realizes he’s still gripping the countertop for dear life. He sucks in a deep breath through his nose. _Time to shine_ , he reassures himself.

“You’re the guest, so you choose the piece,” Jesse says, waving a hand towards the open cabinet. 

Well, thank God for Saul’s _research._ He knows exactly which ostentatious bong is Jesse’s favorite -- but he crosses purposefully to the cabinet and makes a show of pretending to weigh the pros and cons of the myriad ridiculous bongs and pipes it contains. 

There’s a hierarchy of bongs on this five-shelf display case. The obvious favorites sit at eye level for easy reach, the ones too expensive to make sense at the top, and cheap, yet sentimental pieces decorate the lower two shelves. Among the ridiculousness, Saul notes, is the glistening crystal bong that was purposefully shaped to look like a shattered spear of ice. It only makes him think of the ice king in the old Frosty the Snowman animations, and as he suspected: it’s just as stupid as he thought up close. Beside it sits a flaming red piece, glass stained with a black rim and an airbrushed skull looming on the shaft. Saul can only guess he paid too much for it, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell him that. Instead, he mumbles “nice” under his breath, trying to compliment his tastes.

Saul wrinkles his chin under a thoughtful frown, leaning back to get a better view of the ones lining the bottom shelves. Ah, yes: the flaming circus clown bong, the obligatory “I smoke weed with this because it’s covered in marijuana leaves” piece, a short Spongebob-themed bong that he still gawks at (and just can’t understand the appeal of), and the great vanity flamingo bong. He smiles at the flamingo and starts to reach for it for the comedy factor, then withdraws his hand, wiggling his fingers. He turns the smile into a thin line, directs his gaze to the middle of the display, and exhales an audible ‘ah’. There it is.

Satisfied with his performance, he lifts Jesse’s favorite out and closes the cabinet. He even knows the thing’s dumb name. Saul sets the bong down on the coffee table, pausing to wipe the smudge of his fingerprints off of the clear chamber that’s draped with black and red glass embellishments. The thing is enormous and as well-adorned as they come, _like a goddamned Chihuly piece,_ Saul thinks.

He stands next to the couch, half unsure, though, when Jesse doesn’t react. Finally, he  looks up from his work and his face lights up. Hell yeah it does -- no accidents here. 

“The Black Ninja! Nice,” Jesse says, nodding in approval. Saul tries not to look smug and shoves his hands into his pockets, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet as Jesse takes the bowl and starts to pack it. He bobs his head to the music, clearly in the zone now, and it’s uncanny to be standing here and watching it happen, close enough to reach out and card a hand through that ridiculous bedhead. 

Jesse looks up -- catching him staring but mercifully misinterpreting the gaze.

“You got cold feet or what, chump?”

“Me? Cold feet? Never heard of ‘em,” Saul says, not quite backtracking but too caught off guard for a better joke. 

“Well grab some cushion, dude,” Jesse says, patting the spot on the couch next to him. Saul frowns and swallows hard. This is _really happening._ Some part of him is tempted to examine all of the life choices that brought him to this bizarre moment. 

Instead, he sits. 

Feeling vaguely like this is some sort of middle school date, he leaves a wide margin between their thighs, lowering down onto a spot far enough away that they’re not even sharing a cushion. _Breathing room_ , he thinks. _Just because you **are** a creep doesn’t mean you have to act like one._

So much for that thought: Jesse moves immediately, scooting over with bong in hand until the length of his thigh is pressed against Saul’s. Saul goes still as a statue and Jesse continues, all manic energy as he reaches for the lighter and passes over the glass piece. He’s bouncing a little to the thrumming beat as they sit there, hip to hip, and Saul licks his dry lips. 

“So,” Jesse says, jiggling one knee and giving Saul a look like this is the most amused he’s been with anything in weeks. “We rippin’ it or what?” 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Jesse tends to keep his expectations low for Wednesdays.

Mondays are shit -- everyone acknowledges it, even if your job is smoking weed and blogging about it. Tuesdays are a weird limbo. Best not to dwell on Tuesdays if he’s being honest with himself. You have the peak of your extended weekend: your Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays… hell yeah, Saturdays. There is a god and Saturdays are the true life and breath of what happiness is. That’s when the real magic happens, when one can get whisked away in what the week worked up. It prepares for the inevitable low of Sundays, where you pretend you’re not about to start over with the total _crap point_ of the week. Fuck you, Sunday.

But Wednesdays are a wasteland.

Wednesday is that weird neither-here-nor-there point of the week where Jesse won’t allow himself to start celebrating another week well done, but not quite so miserable as a Tuesday or unspeakable as a Monday. Not the worst but… low expectations. There could be turnarounds on Wednesday. At best.

But not today.  Goddamn. Ladies and gentlemen, this is a Wednesday to remember. This bizarre throwback of a human being is about to attempt a bong rip out of Jesse’s favorite piece -- and if the events that have led up to their place on the couch now are any indication of the way the next few minutes are going to go, Jesse is about to hit peak entertainment. The sweet spot.

He passes over the bong -- ostentatious but a favorite. There’s a moment before the moment where the bong hangs in the air between them, expertly packed, fresh and perfect and about to be wasted were it not for this moment of comedy that’s coming.

The guy -- the man of the hour, honestly, the source of entertainment that Jesse’s life had been so deeply lacking and he hadn’t even known it, the owner of the Caddy sitting out front as inconspicuous as a hooker wearing neon faux fur in August -- just sits there and _God is this rich_.

Jesse shakes the glass piece a little, just gesturing in the air with it, palm flared next to it as if to say, _Don’t_ _forget you **asked** for this, wiseass._

It must wake him up because he’s reaching for it all at once, jostling the couch cushion they’re sharing and letting a, “Right, great, sorry!” burst out as he takes it, holds it for a good three seconds, and unceremoniously puts it back down on the coffee table.

_What. The fuck._

He’s shrugging out of his jacket now, laughing nervously as Jesse glares at him.

“What gives, dude? I don’t have all day.”

“I just -- yeah,” the guy is saying, all manic energy now, half-standing and draping the jacket across an unoccupied section of the couch back. “The cost of dry cleaning these days -- you know?”

Jesse raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“Not… even a little, yo. Do I look like I dry clean my Ed Hardy?”

Another shaky laugh.  The guy’s throat is dryer than the fucking outskirts of town; this is really making his day.

“Right! Natural fibers, good way to go,” the man says, sitting back down a little too hard on the couch. Jesse’s frowning, waiting for the next excuse to postpone this inevitable humiliation. Is he gonna loosen his goddamn tie? Return some voicemails? Schedule his spa appointment to push back his cuticles?

But no -- finally, he’s reaching back to take the legendary Black Ninja in one hand and the cheap Bic lighter in the other. He seems to get the gist of it at least: which end you suck on and which end you light. He fumbles with the lighter, though, almost dropping it at their feet before goddamned stopping again. Jesse lets his posture sag as he gives the guy the best _come-the-fuck- **ON**_ look he can muster.

“Little rusty,” the guy says through a laugh that’s growing increasingly familiar.

“You need some help, or?”

The man in the Florida orange shirt and the striped tie that should have been chucked out with the rest of the Valentine’s Day clearance items, which are now on full embarrassing display without the only acceptably-colored force of the charcoal grey jacket, narrows his eyes, straightens his spine, and flicks the lighter on -- balanced perfectly.

“Here goes,” he says, looking down the barrel of the bong, remarkably _unlike_ a man about to humiliate  himself.

With a sweep of the hand and a duck of the head that can only be described as graceful in spite of everything that’s come before it, the man lights the bowl purposefully and evenly as he draws a steady white plume into the chamber. He keeps his mouth sealed around it, eyebrows knit in concentration and eyes cast down to what he can see of the piece. Christ, it’s a hell of a hit -- and Jesse is a little taken aback at the aggressive bubbling as he continues to suck a long drag. He’s ready to laugh at the guy, not give him mouth to mouth when the dumbass coughs up a cheap buffet lunch and expires here across the coffee table.

But no, the guy fills the damn thing up -- and for a second Jesse thinks maybe he doesn’t know what to do next and he’s about to reach out to stop him from fucking up or, _worse,_ sucking down the type of hit that would give the great Chucks420Roundhousekicks himself pause.

Jesse has a hand out to stop whatever horrific tragedy is about to go down in his living room right now when the man plucks the stem out at the last possible minute, holding it delicately between the first knuckle of two fingers and flourishing it out into the air. Still attached to the mouthpiece, he finally looks up, single eyebrow raised, smoke rapidly disappearing.

It’s gone. The whole hit is gone.

Jesse waits for the panic to set in on the man’s face -- but instead he’s gently replacing the stem and setting the Black Ninja onto the coffee table, holding in the hit like it was a breath of spring mountain air or some shit, calm as Buddha sitting on the john during a warm, summer day.

Jesse can’t keep the shock off his face and he stares openly at the man with wide eyes. The man leans back into the couch with a tight smile, looking at Jesse and bobbing his head off-time to the music in the background. He wiggles his fingers around a little in the air and Jesse can’t tell if time is stretching out because he’s in shock or if this stranger has lungs like a whale and he’s _really holding the hit this long_.

The man’s face stays expressive, eyebrows high and eyes rolling a little bit -- the way someone might act if you asked them a question at dinner right as they put a giant bite into their mouth. He almost looks a little apologetic, head still moving to the music, expression seeming to say, “Waiting sure is embarrassing!”

This man is from another dimension. Or this is some kind of trap. Or Jesse’s on some shitty reality TV show right now -- which, bro, _not_ OK, he hasn’t signed a release and this face isn’t available without fair pay.. Or…  Jesse’s mind fires through the possibilities. _Who the hell IS this guy?_

And then finally -- with nary a cough or missed beat -- the guy breathes out.

Fucking. Ghosted it.

He’s like a human air filter -- nothing but clean, clear CO2 in that spent breath and Jesse isn’t sure whether to scream or congratulate the guy but he’s definitely feeling _something_ about this magnificent performance he’s just witnessed and he’s trying from the depths of his soul to conjure up the vocabulary to do it justice. All that comes out is a dry, expressionless, “What.”

The stranger is smiling wide and catching his breath, that damn eyebrow hitched, and his voice is a little ragged when he starts to talk.

“What, you didn’t think I --”

“No -- what -- _WHAT?”_

He’s clearly pleased with himself, clapping a hand on Jesse’s shoulder and laughing now, eyes already a little heavy-hooded -- because Jesse only has the finest on hand and you’d have to have a nervous system like an elephant not to already be feeling a hit like that.

“Didn’t think I’d know how to rip a bong?”

“What the hell _was that?_ ” Jesse demands. The human peacock gives a little shrug. The excitement radiating from him is barely concealed, from the way the whole gesture makes him look like a proud little kid attempting to be humble for the first time. “I think I have a halfie right now,” the weed king continues, dragging a hand down his face.

The man chuckles somewhere deep in his chest before flaring out both hands like a magician, gone even more expressive than before.

“Well, you know, kid,” the man begins, balling up one fist and extending his index finger as though he’s about to make an important point, “you know what they say. And that -- is that... that practice makes the game... you score goals, when you’re a team...” his gaze drifts past Jesse, or rather, through Jesse as the mega hit he took takes the reins. His mouth hangs open like a dumb dog before he swipes his tongue over his lips, pursing them inward while he tries to grab that hanging thought. “Y’know, practice...”

“Fuck -- ok -- halfie confirmed. You gotta teach me, man,” Jesse says.

“It’s an _art_ ,” he says at last. He’s practically melting back into the couch before Jesse’s very eyes; he’s so pleased with himself and his peacocking has gone straight through the roof.

“Show me what you’re starting with,” he continues magnanimously, rolling a hand in the air. “You know -- like a… pre-test. Before your real education begins.”

Jesse doesn’t need to be told twice, and the whole thing is like clockwork, muscle memory taking over as he scoops up his favorite piece and goes to work. He doesn’t even attempt a rip like he’s just witnessed -- he still needs to function today, and the camera isn’t even on. Gotta save the big, impressive lung scorchers for the channel, yo.

Shit. The channel. _Christ, this would be gold._

Even as he’s holding in the hit, Jesse suddenly wonders if this guy’s drawers are as aesthetically offensive as the rest of the package. This is prime material for the “Hits With Friends” playlist and, as a content producer, there is no way Jesse is about to let this guy get away without taking a hit like that on camera. If he convinces this guy to strip down -- because there’s a channel theme to keep in mind, of course -- he’s probably not going to have time to change his own clothes and risk gutting the momentum with this strange, lost dad-looking motherfucker with secret lungs of steel.

Jesse does a mental inventory -- and suddenly the act of getting dressed this morning seems like it was a long time ago. Had he thrown on the neon Butterfinger boxer briefs, or the Muppets-branded Animal ones a fan had sent in? Fuck it. There’s no time to worry about it.

Somewhere in that spiraling thought process, he realizes he’s set the bong back down but not let the breath out. He hadn’t even had his heart in trying to ghost it, been too distracted, and -- embarrassment of all fucking embarrassments, the one time he needs his head to be in the game he’d let his mind wander and he’s _coughing._ Like an _amateur_.

“Oh ho ho, Young Master Pinkman, there’s much to learn,” the man says, bracing him with one hand on Jesse’s shoulder and _hold. The fuck. Up._

This rando knows his name? Had he said his name? There’s no way he would’ve said _last name_ , but he’s coughing too hard now to call the guy out.

“Young padawan, my little grasshopper,” he’s rambling, his hand firm on Jesse’s bony shoulder. “C’maaan, I know you got more in you than that. But what’s the hurt of taking a hit like it was your first time, huh? Back to the ol’ virginal days of yore? Fuck me, I mean, I kind of wish I could go back to the very first time a guy held out a nug to me and said, wanna smoke? Whew,” he laughs through his words, “I mean, I was just only like, fifteen and--”

“Yo,” Jesse finally squeaks out -- and the guy doesn’t stop, he’s in a full blown monologue now. “ _Yo_! You said you’re not a cop -- how the _fuck_ do you know my last name?”

That stops him in his tracks. The formerly verbose peacock looking motherfucker now has withdrawn his hands to rest them, limp in his lap, mouth opening and closing like a fish struggling on dry land.

“Who _are_ you, dude?”

And fuck -- what a time for the hit to kick in hard. Even as Jesse is panicking about who or what he’s allowed to buy him armfuls of snacks, let into his apartment, and subsequently smoked out, he’s feeling the familiar body high of this particular strain -- one of his favorites to be sure -- creeping up his spine and melting the bones along the way. It’s almost tempting to be absorbed into the couch the same way the stranger had but _shit_ , he has a goddamned mystery to solve right now. Stay on task, Jesse.

“Are you tryin’ to rig me up right now, man? Play nice and get me all cozied up to -- whose idea was this anyway? I mean, you were the guy that started it! Bein’ all, all,” Jesse struggles, and throws his arm into the nothingness in front of him, “all fuckin’... weird about it! How many times I asked you if you’re a cop and you know what? You never gave me a straight up answer. So what is it, huh? You a creep or are you a cop?”

“I’m -- no threat to you -- I --”

“Oh, jeez, no threat to you,” he mocks, holding up his hands. “Nah man, you gotta work with me here or this is all going down right now! I got people, yo. I can’t be compromised! You gotta buckle up and tell me what the fuck is going on with you, how the hell do you know my name? You know what, that’s more important to me than anythin’ else right now, so you fess up before I call in some people that are gonna be even more pissed than me! You feel me, yo?”

The man’s face crumples into an expression that’s a little familiar -- the same sort of apologetic look he’d put on before trying to buy weed from Jesse in the middle of goddamned Target, for the peanut butter aisle and all the world to see.

“I’m _a fan,_ ” the man says, finally. He sits back and lets the words hang in the air, no longer looking at him. Jesse snorts because of course his stoner brain is guiding him straight to the comeback of “Nah dude, you’re not _a fan_ , you’re a human dude,” and that’s so _not_ warranted right now, please remember the objective, self.

“A fan. You’re kiddin’ me,” Jesse says -- and he’s trying not to laugh or smile because this whole thing should be creepy but. _A fan_. The rage and paranoia is trickling away faster than the Terminator pumps bullets. “Like a subscriber or?”

“I may have… perused… some of your offerings,” the guy says, looking tentatively less horrified by the situation. “‘Worldwide Wake and Bake’ is a particular favorite playlist of mine. Great natural light you get here in the mornings.”

This guy is ripped. He’s gone. This is amazing. He watched the ‘Worldwide Wake and Bake’ playlist -- forty goddamn videos. A personal favorite, really.

“So were you, what, like, stalking me into Target?”

The man puts up both hands as if he can slow down the assumptions with a gesture.

“Whoa -- wait, ok, it’s not like that,” he says, more animated again. “I was on an _errand_ , alright? Like anyone that goes into Target. But I saw an... opportunity. You know? You go in for one thing at Target, and..”

“I’m an _opportunity?_ ” Jesse’s voices pitches, preparing to rage anew. “What does that --”

“Kid, slow down, listen,” he says. And then a pause -- and Jesse isn’t sure if he’s too baked to actually come up with an excuse or if he’s actually forming an argument here but fuck it: daylight is burning and if Jesse is _an opportunity,_ then this guy is… something larger than… _an opportunity_. Shit, he’s stoned.

“We’re making an episode,” Jesse says, trying to make the statement firm enough that the guy won’t be able to talk him out of it.

“Like -- right -- now, _here_?  Chucks420, live and in color? ‘Hits with Friends’ playlist?”

God, the guy really _is_ a fan. What a fucking nerd.

“Yeah man, ‘Hits with Friends’ playlist,” Jesse says. “Talent like that -- you gotta share it with the world. Or at least my 825,000 subscribers.”

The man claps his hands together and rubs them like it’s the greatest idea he’s ever heard in his life. Well, that was easy.

“So, let’s, uh, what do we -- should I?”

Jesse starts to retrieve his laptop, the little tabletop tripod, his camera, already thinking about the best way to frame two people in one shot, whether or not he needs to open the blinds to take advantage of the afternoon light. The guy just watches him from his boneless spot on the couch.

“Think you can do that again, old man, or do you need an inhaler?”

He scoffs but doesn’t have a comeback.

“Got an oxygen tank in that Caddy or what?”

“ _You're_ gonna need an oxygen tank, kid, if you're gonna learn properly."

“Says the dad that looks like he dresses like a mid-life crisis.”

“Hey,” he starts, pointing a large finger at Jesse. “Who wants to see the drab old guy in a suit all the time? I dress to impress.”

Jesse scoffs. “You dress to make eyeballs bleed.”

“Oh yeah? Where’s your degree in fashion, slick? Your pants are hanging off your ass and, hey, what size is that? You’re a size zero and you’re wearing a three-XL!”

“It’s street,” the wiry stoner counters, defensive. “You gotta look the part and act the part if you’re gonna _be_ a part,  yo. You dig? Meanwhile,” he continues, cutting the other man right off, “you’re walkin’ around making people regret they ever discovered all those different pigments in the first place!”

“I thought you’d like the pink, _Pinkman_.”

“Oh, yeah, really clever. I never heard that one before in my life. Real mature, Bob Saget.”

His ghosting guest stares at him and dips his head towards his shoulder in disbelief. “Wow.” He pulls his head back and breaks their eye contact, opting for staring at the opposite wall as the insult sinks in. “Wow. Bob Saget, huh? Aren’t you a charmer. Okay, Mary Kate,” he shoots back, throwing up his hands in the air. “If it would _please_ your _delicate senses_ , I can remove mine offensive garments and throw them to the winds of chance.”

Jesse pauses, his mind grabbing for all the possible responses and only nabbing the most obvious one. “Well, yeah. If we’re gonna be rippin’ it on camera, I have an image to keep up. I’m not shooting with that shit on your back. I’ll lose more than half of my subs in five seconds. So… yeah,” he confirms, waving his hand dismissively at the idiot’s clothes. “Move it and lose it. Aesthetics count, yo.”

As though this was exactly what he wanted to hear, the gratuitous Picasso-esque dresser looks Jesse right in the eye as his thick fingers begin to make work of the seashell buttons on that Halloween orange shirt.


	5. Chapter 5

Someone hand Saul Goodman a whiskey and a cigar, because he won the lottery. He feels the broad shit-eating grin he wears on his face right into the marrow of his bones. He was admittedly worried there, for all of three minutes, when he thought the jig was up and Jesse was going to explode and chuck him out of his place like a week-old Chinese takeout box. 

(He’s really gotta hand it to himself; he’s charismatic right out the ass. It works well for him, and of course it does. S’all good, man.)

And now, for the first time since he’d laid eyes on that walking pile of yesterday’s comfortable laundry in that unlikely suburban shopping hell, they’re firmly into territory that Saul understands. The first hit had been his time to shine -- and par for the course, Saul shines on.

He can’t help but make direct eye contact with the thin little stoner while Saul begins to undress. Like establishing some sort of dominance, Jesse doesn’t back down, and doesn’t even flinch with discomfort when he shrugs off his shirt and throws his tie over the far arm of the beat up couch. Their battle continues even as he rises and makes deliberate work of his belt, clasp, and zipper, parting only when he has to look down to focus on pulling off his trousers so he doesn’t take a nosedive straight into the coffee table. Those too go to the pile to be forgotten about.

When he sinks into the cushions again, there is only the white t-shirt on his back and Christmas colored boxers on his person. He makes a show of making himself comfortable, spreading his knees wide and slouching against the fading upholstery. Saul lays his hands on his thighs and rubs at them idly, then slaps them once and tilts his head back to look at Jesse sidelong.

If he didn’t know any better, and sometimes he doesn’t (which he won’t admit), the kid looks nervous. He was holding himself together pretty well, so he’s gotta give him credit. From the look of his ‘Hits with Friends’ videos, being in his skivvies with other guys doesn’t normally faze him. For whatever reason, right now, the young Pinkman actually seems to be a bit on the edge.

Whether it was the hit he took prior, or that he just isn’t used to a guy twice his age in his undies around him, he can’t figure out. But it’s like every ounce of confidence Saul has gained has been wrestled away from the formerly unflappable Jesse. 

The original heavy hit that made Saul’s mind feel like it was wrapped in warm cotton is starting to even out now, ease and pleasure unfurling from some nice little spot at the base of his skull as he gains some clarity. Saul smiles at him lazily, and offers his hand towards the camera setup. “So, shall we, Mary Kate?”

Jesse scoffs at the nickname and grumbles something under his breath as he gets to his feet. Saul lifts his head slightly from the couch and lofts his brows. “Huh? What was that?”

“I said, blow me, Bob Saget,” he mutters, louder this time and with the malice of an annoyed teenager. Saul only chuckles, his head connecting with the leather cushion with a soft thud.

“Maybe later, princess. Gotta stay on track. Your public awaits.”

“Do you ever, like, cool down?” Jesse asks, exasperated.

Saul exhales a short, breathy laugh and shrugs his hands in the air.

“What? Can’t take the heat? Stay outta the sun.”

“I can take the heat,” Jesse replies, squatting next to the couch and opening his beat up Dell laptop. “Do old people get crankier in their old age? Just wondering.”

“Crankier, and saucier,” Saul smirks, watching Jesse pull up several video programs, their image from the camera adjusting into view. They lapse into brief silence, allowing the YouTube weed celebrity to concentrate on getting their setup just right before pushing the laptop onto the far edge of the table. He doesn’t come to the couch yet, though, fixing Saul with a stare.

“Take a picture kid, it’ll last longer and you already have the setup ready,” Saul teases. He flexes a little and Jesse rolls his eyes. “It’s distracting -- I know.”

“Nah man -- it’s just… you almost look like a human without the whole color disaster situation,” Jesse says, biting down a crooked smile. “At least you didn’t disappoint with the boxers. It ain’t December anymore, Santa.”

“It’s Christmas all the time when you believe in it.”

Finally, Jesse joins him in making himself comfortable. “Alright, Saget. You watched my videos, you know the drill. You gotta sit up here, it’s all fuckin’ casual.”

“Yes, sir,” he says, clearing his throat as he readjusts his position to perch near the edge like Jesse, leaning his elbows on his knees. He glances at him, then at the computer, and finally looks into the camera. He’s a trained professional; he could ignore the distraction of their reflecting image from the screen in his peripheral vision. It’s as if shooting all his cheesy commercials have led up to this point. He’s about to impress the hell out of one Jesse Pinkman.

The kid leans in to start rolling.

“Hey -- Jesse -- but -- “

“ _What_ man?” he asks, face pinched as he slings a frustrated look over his shoulder. Saul sits up tall, gesturing up and down the front of his body.

“It’s just that I’m --... and _you’re_ … I mean, you said it yourself: there’s an aesthetic to maintain here. Your _subscribers._ There are expectations.” 

“Shit,” Jesse says, connecting the dots and practically launching off the couch. It’s like he hadn’t thought through the fact that his turn to disrobe was overdue at this point. “Uh, I ah--”

Is he seriously _nervous?_ Because Saul has watched enough of these brain-rotting bong hit videos to know that the owner and operator of this stupid weed channel has absolutely _zero_ to be nervous about when it comes to stripping down. He’s intimately familiar with the rock hard evidence, in fact, that the kid is generally doing his community and humanity in general a disservice by being clothed as often as he is. 

If he weren’t pleasantly buzzing, he’d feel just as sleazy as he ought to as Jesse breaks eye contact and starts to strip efficiently, tossing his sagging insults to proper clothes to mingle with Saul’s discarded garments. 

Saul pretends to become intensely interested in a spot on the kitchen wall far in the distance -- as if that would give the kid some privacy -- but he strips down too fast for there to be much dead time. And then there he is, bouncing back onto the couch next to Saul. Apparently he’s got the shot framed tight enough for them to be directly side by side again, or maybe he just has no concept of personal space. Either way, Saul’s not about to complain about the boney hip that bounces against his as Jesse gets adjusted on the couch and the warmth where the lengths of their legs meet as Jesse leans forward to play with the computer again.

He hadn’t gotten a good look from the front -- that kitchen wall being far too interesting -- but there’s nothing stopping him from taking in the narrow expanse of skin as his host fiddles with the keyboard again. The jury is back with a verdict and he’s guilty as sin: he’s in full creep mode now, committing the notches of Jesse’s spine to memory (who could blame him? Videos only ever feature front views and Saul’s just trying to put together the pieces for a fuller understanding.)  

Distracted by downy hair, a tacky new tattoo to take in on one freckled shoulder, and the hint of hip dimples, Saul almost misses today’s featured boxer briefs, striped with photorealistic “CAUTION” tape spanning the back of his hips and ass. Incredible. Pinkman never did disappoint with his fashion choices.

“Aight, you good?” Jesse asks, spinning before Saul can pretend to be doing anything but staring.

“Huh? Fine! Let’s get this show on the road!” 

“Sure you’re good?” Jesse asks -- and Saul wonders how much truth the kid might be able to read on his face presently. The first hit has moved to tickle the crown of his skull and it’s a horrifying thought that it could be eroding his normally steely poker face. He presses his lips into a line and Jesse raises his eyebrows, letting Saul twist in the wind.

“Are we doing this or what?” Saul asks, feigning impatience now, and Jesse narrows his eyes like he just _knows_ , like he’s gonna sit there and let him flail for as long as it takes. Saul rubs the tops of his knees. “Your aesthetic doesn’t leave a lot to the imagination, kid -- “

Jesse has a rebuttal but Saul cuts him off. 

“I mean, with last time, I’m just thinking about _you_ here,” he continues. “Are _you_ ready to watch the magic happen again?”

“The magic,” Jesse says expressionless. “Right. I’m good dude -- save the banter for the camera.”

Saul clears his throat and then they’re recording, Jesse suddenly concentrated and on task, his voice lilting quickly through the introduction that Saul knows by heart.

"What up – Jesse: comin' to you from Chucks420RoundhouseKicks – the 18-and-over ABQ channel designed for cannabis patients and adults! What the HELL is up?"

He bounces slightly on the couch, more animated as he slips into the weed blogger persona that makes his videos so compelling in the first place (or, well, at least as compelling as the visuals that accompany the persona). 

"Today we’re coming to you with a fresh video for -- you got it! -- the Hits With Friends playlist,” he says, jostling Saul with a sharp shoulder. Saul gives a little bow, all smiles for the camera. It’s almost reassuring to know they’re rolling, the two of them on even ground now because this is his bread and butter. 

Jesse flares his hands then claps them together once, smiling broadly into the lens. “If at any time you should enjoy this video, make sure you give this video the big _thumbs up_ ,” he says, demonstrating with his two hooked thumbs, which Saul mimics with a grin of his own, “and if you haven't subscribed to Chucks420RoundhouseKicks already? What's wrong with you? What're you doing here?" He knits his eyebrows together, looking sharply towards his companion, who in turn frowns right back at him before they both glare into the camera. Jesse breaks the facade and laughs, clicking his tongue. "Nah, I'm fuckin with you. Like always! Subscribe for more if you want, it's whatever. Let's get it."

Saul’s expression melts away into calm cheerfulness, providing the silent sidekick routine until his cohort is done with all the necessary introductions. “Today, my friends, we got ourselves a new guest to the whole scene. He’s shown me what’s up, he’s proven his worth, and that’s why he’s here with us today - and because he loaded me up with all the necessary shit I’m gonna need to eat after this video. 

“Today, we’re joined, by, uh…” Jesse’s stare rests on his older friend, and after the beat, Saul realizes he’s looking at him. It hits them both in this very moment: he’d revealed that he knows who Jesse is, but he’d never introduced _himself_. The faint look of panic hitching Jesse’s brows and the growing pause between them doesn’t bode well for the momentum of the video. Both are scrambling for some sort of saving point, and Saul’s quick thinking and pride doesn’t allow him to sit there like a gasping fish.

“Jimmy.” 

He smiles warmly at Jesse, and then directly into the camera. He lifts his hand and waves amicably at the nobody beyond. “Hi guys! I’m Jimmy.”

==========

His name is Jimmy?

What sort of fucking name is that for an adult-ass human being? Jesse can and will be one to judge here, and he is pretty sure this guy looks nothing like a Jimmy. Well, whatever. Jimmy’s working the camera like he’s intimately involved with it, and so he plays it cool while they go through their shpiel.

And this guy smooth talking the camera like he’s about to slip the thing his phone number couldn’t be _less_ like the fumbling, awkward dad-looking motherfucker who had approached him in Target. He’s slick and confident and weirdly _convincing_ and Jesse feels kind of like he’s waiting for a sales pitch as he realizes he’d definitely buy whatever this guy is selling. 

This is like some sort of weird body double bullshit, and Jesse wouldn’t believe this is the same guy if he hadn’t kept his eyes on Jimmy pretty much the whole time since they’d entered his apartment.

At first it had been comedic because it’s too hard to look away from a train wreck. And now it’s… well. He can’t put his finger on it. He really _does_ almost look like a normal human being, stripped out of everything that made Jesse’s eyes threaten to bleed at each casual glance. It’s tripping Jesse the fuck out, as he jumps in now and then to help with banter, purposefully keeping his eyes _off_ Jimmy’s ropey forearms and expressive hands, arching brows, and eyes that he’s somehow only now just noticing are _so blue_ and -- _Jesse. Chill, dude. What even_ is _that._ You feeling okay, there?

He takes comfort in the fact it’s probably the major drag he took before filming.

“I’m here because I have a small plastic rectangle that made Jesse’s day,” he’s telling their future audience. “And I also have a particular gift I want to impart on you all.”

“Yeah, who knew? Can you guys believe this, an old dog teaching us new tricks?”

“Hey, hey,” Jimmy scolds, wagging his finger in his host’s direction. “I’ve been around the bend, and--”

“Several bends. What are you, sixty?”

“Old enough to practice ripping a bong better than you could ever hope to.”

“OK gramps -- yo, tell me the one again about how you had to walk five miles in the snow each way to rip a bong back in Cicero.”

“Yeah, we’d go right before we had to churn our butter in the sleet and cold on our front porch -- do you have at least _one_ other joke rattling around in there somewhere?”

“I shoulda known with all that hot air, this guy’d have lungs of steel,” Jesse says into the camera, thumbing at the man beside him, who makes a noise between a scoff and a laugh. “Cause, like, OK main event here, you guys. I wouldn’tve believed it myself if I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes what, thirty minutes ago?”

“Maybe. We kinda lost time there.”

“No kidding? This old fart ghosted a major rip from The Black Ninja.” A respectful, punctuated silence envelops them as they share a look and a nod. “I thought we were gonna have to Life Alert, but hey, old timer made it through, yo.”

“Are you gonna lay off the whole age thing anytime soon?” Jimmy asks, glancing between Jesse and the camera, as though the nonexistent audience could have his back on the matter. “Really buddy, you gotta come up with new content sometime.”

“I’m busy thinking about the snacks waiting for me in the kitchen,” he replies, grinning out of the corner of his mouth. “I’ll take you guys on a tour of the haul after this, but first: the real reason why some creep is with me right here, right now. Let’s bring her out. Oh yeah, you know who I mean, my good friends -- The Black Ninja.”

Jesse catches Jimmy wiggling his fingers in the air all Broadway extra style as he reaches across the table and brings the beloved bong into view. He chooses to ignore the cheesy “tadaa” his benefactor sings at his right, turning the piece to show off its impressive craftsmanship.

They riff with each other as Jesse refreshes the bowl a little, Jesse alternately baiting Jimmy and teasing the audience about how impressed they’re gonna be. After taking some well-deserved time with it, he’s finally satisfied with the setup and he passes the bong and lighter to Jimmy before giving the camera a serious look. 

“Ok team, fair warning: if you’re not ready to deal with the fact that you’re about to have a hard-on for this geezer to my right, you’re gonna wanna shut the video down at this point.” 

He pauses for effect and Jimmy looks smug. 

“Great, you’re still with us, I knew you guys were champs,” Jesse says, feigning relief and bouncing back on the couch to get comfortable and watch the show. “For those who aren’t, your loss. Do your thing, Jimmy.” 

Jimmy is more confident this time as he brandishes the lighter with ease a sucks a huge hit into the chamber. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” Jesse says into the camera, holding up a cautioning hand. “Do _not_ panic. Paramedics are not standing by, but it’s cool, I got ‘em on speed dial.” 

He looks back to Jimmy and the man is half-smiling at him around the mouthpiece with a look that’s more obscene than it ought to be. He _winks_ \-- actually fucking winks -- at Jesse before plucking the stem out and taking down the thick hit like it’s a breath of fresh goddamned air. Incredible. This is the most up front erotic thing Jesse has seen outside of an actual porno in years and all jokes about “the magic” aside, Jesse finds himself shifting on the couch to try and redirect some blood flow that seems to have gotten confused and headed towards places that are unfortunate considering Jesse’s current wardrobe (or lack thereof). Nobody teaches the cautions of surprise boners in the “say no to drugs” seminars.

Jimmy is _really_ pleased with himself, and he sits back to begin the process of waiting, hair a little askew, eyes wide and animated, making that dumb undershirt and Christmas boxers look impossibly good.

This brings Jesse to a full stop. Yo, hold the phone. Jesse Pinkman did _not_ just allow himself to think this weirdo looks good. It almost leaves a weird taste in his mouth. He backs up a few steps mentally. The chronic has obviously gotten some wires crossed in Jesse’s brain.

_ Too much _ chronic can lead to some dubious times, and now he’s reminded of these implications.

Jimmy is killing dead air time as he holds the hit, hitching his shoulders to the distant beat of Jesse’s music in the background. Christ -- Jesse is an _entertainer_ \-- what is he doing here? He clears his throat and scrambles for something to fill the silence.

“So, you know, we’re hangin’ out, we’re chillin, no big deal, motherfucker just gonna ghost a ginormous hit -- that’s fine, right?” he rambles. “I mean, that’s what you’re here for, right guys?  Unless you crazy fucks are really seriously invested in seeing me chug some Peeps egg nog in a hot minute. Can you believe that? Peeps comes out of left field with the greatest shit! Spring egg nog is my _jam!_ ”

Before he can continue his useless monologue, Jimmy lays a hand across his knee to get his attention and Jesse feels like he’s about to jump out of his skin. He slings a look over to the man on the couch next to him who is beginning to breathe out dramatically. 

There’s nothing that passes his lips. Ghosted. One hundred percent. Just like before. 

Jesse is beyond impressed, and so is the rest of him.

“Aaaand that’s how you do it,” Jimmy says, triumphant. His voice sounds ragged and deeper after the second hard hit and it reverberates in a way that has something suddenly knocking loose in Jesse’s chest. His thighs tense subconsciously and he momentarily hides his clenched fists underneath the edge of the coffee table. _Christ, get a grip._

Jesse reaches out for the bong and maneuvers it into his lap -- needing to put _something_ in between himself and this confusing weirdo more than the tiny amount of fabric separating them now. 

“What’d I tell ya?” Jesse says into the camera, scrambling now for enthusiasm. “Guy’s basically a fucking wizard. Who knew there was a sleeper walking among us on the streets of ABQ? Yo, Jimmy, can you like, bless my bong or something? Like a high priest or some shit of Our Lady of the Hits? How do you do this?” 

“Practice makes perfect, kid,” Jimmy says, landing a teasing slap against Jesse’s thigh with the back of his hand. “Let ‘er rip.” Dude is fucking faded and Jesse can’t decide if he’s annoyed or pleased at the fact that he seems to get more handsy like this. Nobody reacts the exactly the same, but the strain they’re dealing with today always lands Jesse with a pleasant, buzzing body high that leaves him deeply contemplating the texture of his couch cushions and the fact that his spine is tingling -- so maybe it’s settling into this guy’s bones in the same way. 

As Jesse lines up for his hit, Jimmy vaults off the couch, suddenly animated. 

“Oh man, we bought Cheetos,” he says, leaving Jesse in a lurch. 

_ Dude,  _ he thinks angrily as he watches Jimmy’s back. _You don’t just bail in the middle of a video!_

It throws Jesse off enough that he sucks too much air into the chamber, bong water bubbling angrily and his thin brows knitted tight. Much too late, he’s aware how he’s just resigned to his absent-minded stupidity, removing the stem and doing his best to take the hit and hold it. He frowns into the camera, trying his damndest to ghost it and knowing already that he’s gonna fail. His lungs are burning and the rising cough is banging at the walls of his throat. 

Jimmy is fucking around in the kitchen, but he returns quickly, giant bag of Cheetos in hand, and he falls back onto the couch like he lives here or something. He settles just in time for Jesse to violently cough out the too-big hit. 

Jimmy swoops in, placing a firm hand in the middle of Jesse’s naked back as he coughs hard. 

“Hey, hey, Jesse -- take it easy, alright?” he says, like some weed guidance counselor. He rubs circles in between Jesse’s shoulder blades in a way that is particularly unhelpful. “Your throat’s probably hot.” 

To his credit, Jimmy does a great job of filling the dead air while Jesse chokes up a lung. He smoothes his hand up his back and squeezes Jesse’s shoulder, leaning to talk to the camera.

"Hey, take a tip from a pro: if your throat's burning, don't make it worse," he says, still holding Jesse by the shoulder as he clicks his tongue at the camera. “And don’t worry about forcing it! It’s not about impressing anyone, right? Not everyone is blessed with gilded lungs. Practice makes perfect, my friends, but it’s not worth the missing lung.”

As Jesse regains himself, Jimmy sits back with the bag of Cheetos and noisily tears it open. 

“Shit, you guys,” Jesse finally squeaks out. “That went down the wrong pipe.” 

“Performance anxiety happens to the best of us,” Jimmy says, popping a neon Cheeto into his mouth. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” 

“Don’t rag on me on my own show, yo,” Jesse says, weakly. “I’m good. You wanna hit this again, Jimmy?”

==========

Two guys walk into a bar. You would’ve thought at least one of them would’ve ducked.

This is Saul’s second -- no, third-greatest thought of the day. It’s fitting, really, he thinks as another fat, glaringly orange Cheeto passes his lips. The two guys are him and Jesse, and the bar is the one that was set so low that no one could limbo under it. In just fifteen minutes, the bar was set high, and that was the moment that they made a connection.

He’s finally here, sitting on Jesse’s old leather couch, and basking in the glow of two ghosts in a row. It was like an exorcism for his anxiety. All gone, in two expanding blows. Jesse was beyond dazzled by his expertise, and Saul could honestly give himself a hardon through his work. 

Of course, this is all Saul. This _was_ all Saul. He can only give that fatal color wheel so much credit. The rest of it -- the grand scheme of it all, the enormous diamond studded award goes to the one, the only, the forgotten Jimmy.

Thank god for Jimmy.

OK -- sure -- some horrible part of himself had been off guard enough (or comfortable enough? Stoned enough? The jury’s still out on this one…) to say that his name is _Jimmy_. It’s probably for the best, right? He has a reputation and a career to keep up and he hardly needs to be dragging the name he’d built for himself through the dirt and dust just for the sake of spending time with Jesse. 

So maybe his stomach _had_ hitched in a weird way when he’d heard the name uttered through those lips in a voice wrecked by a too-big bong hit. So _what._ It was all too natural, a fact that nearly sours the Cheetos in his stomach.

After Jesse’s offer, he takes a normal hit and ghosts it for good measure. Maybe it’s a mistake because although his lung capacity has held on strong, his tolerance is in the gutter. Or maybe this is just better stuff than he ever had access to, back in a past life. Either way, his body and his sense of his body are suddenly off kilter in a pleasant way. He hadn’t blipped through the galaxies like this since he was fifteen. It’s like a comfort in this hell-damned moment.

And God: Jesse Pinkman in the flesh. Kid sure didn’t disappoint. Some horrible, overconfident, and apparently deeply-altered-by-THC part of his brain keeps announcing the impulse to drop the bag of Cheetos and slide a warm hand up the length of Jesse’s thigh. _C’mon_ , this maniac part of himself insists. _He’s gonna roll with it._ _You’ll never know unless you try._

Instead, like a mature adult, he heeds whatever’s left of his logic brain and holds the bag of cheesey puffed corn turds between them like a physical barrier against poor judgment. He’s too relaxed at this point to even worry about the ridiculous synapses firing and misfiring upstairs -- and he’s all too pleased to enjoy the view as Jesse goes in for another hit. 

This time Jesse doesn’t fuck it up, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, bong poised casually in his lap. He curls over the piece in a perfect “C”, trim stomach wrinkled and ribs expanding as he sucks the hit then straightens out, arching his back and exposing the deep V of his hips that Saul has become intimately familiar with over the past few weeks. 

Jesse can’t _really_ think his subscriber number is inching towards one million just because of the weed and cutesy banter, can he? Kid _has_ to be aware of the effect his carefully cultivated “aesthetic” has on people. There is one great thing that capitalism sells. It can be called an aesthetic, but everyone knows the thinly veiled truth. Saul mulls it over as he crunches another Cheeto mindlessly. 

Jesse exceeds at ghosting the second hit, and Saul immediately scoots to the edge of the couch, ready to congratulate him, only to be cut off by Jesse rushing through the outro. He’s taken aback, and somehow gets the chance to wave to the camera but isn’t allowed to a word in edgewise before Jesse is reaching to shut down the camera and stop the video.

“What’s wrong, kid? I thought we had a good vibe going. You want a second take of that?”

“No,” Jesse replies; a finality. “I got another fucking idea.”

Jesse is eyeing him in a way that’s _got_ to be a combination of those big hits and Saul’s active imagination. Saul heaves his weight to the side and tucks a foot under himself, almost self conscious now. He’s gotta be talking about...

“Shit, the _haul_ right?” Saul says, suddenly aware of how he’s mostly deep into the dusty bag of Cheetos without offering anything to Jesse. He sucks hard around a finger, attempting damage control with the orange stained digit.

He’d almost forgotten where this whole day began: in that wonderland of ill-advised snack choices and white fluorescent lights. Jesse’s eyes just scan him as he starts to rise from the couch, as if he’s completely off base here -- and shit, he’s stood up a little fast; the kid wasn’t expecting that headrush. Jesse, and the sudden blood flow, traffics in potent stuff. Maybe the weird look is just him feeling it, too.

“Kid, you ok? You freakin’ out?” he asks with a smile, almost forgetting he’s dealing with a seasoned professional here. “Look -- have a snack -- I’ll bring you something. Do you need some water?" He sucks hard around the manufactured cheese-layered pad of his thumb while he waits for an answer from Jesse. Not the most dignified thing he’s done in recent memory, but far from the worst. Jesse just stares as he chews on it, watching him lick his fingers like it’s the most interesting thing he’s seen in days. Yep, he concludes: kid’s definitely freaking out.

It’s fine -- Saul’s got this.

Or is it Jimmy? 

He takes a few steps to the kitchen and everything is still on the counter, just like he left it. Best not to ask Jesse for preferences at this point; he just needs to eat something and get his wits back. He runs some water into a thrift shop glass that’s probably clean enough before turning to the pile of snacks. Water and… chips. Can’t go wrong with chips. He’ll need something sweet to offset that, though, and Saul remembers the way Jesse’s eyes had lit up when he picked up the package of golden Oreos. 

OK -- glass of water, chips, Oreos -- but nut butters is where this all started. It’d be a shame not to bring those over, take this whole thing full circle. He balances the Oreos on his forearm, chips held lightly between biceps and chest, hand gripping the glass of water, and in a particularly impressive feat of grace, he sweeps the three jars of nut butters against his chest with the other arm, because there’s no telling which one Jesse would prefer at this point. 

He’s loaded up, he’s ready to return triumphant to the couch where they can tuck into this veritable trash bounty. 

But wait. Something’s missing. Right: spoons. They’ll need spoons for the nut butters -- and not just two spoons. Saul is not about to tolerate cross contamination between separate nut butters here. He’s going to need at least six spoons to handle this situation. Unless they just use Oreos as a scoop? That could work. Jesse doesn’t seem like the type to raise an eyebrow at using Oreos as the means to an end here and -- 

Saul almost drops the entire load that he’s holding because when he turns to ask a question, Jesse is _there_ in the kitchen, just a pace behind him and very much on the border between neutral and personal space. Saul jumps and clutches the ridiculous food, rocking back on one foot and hitching his shoulders. The Oreos are lost to the vintage linoleum tiles beneath their feet.

Jesse doesn’t seem to notice, stepping forward even as Saul steps back. He’s looking straight into Saul’s face like he’s furious, with reddened cheeks, but what comes out of his mouth sounds oddly defeated.

“Man, so, like. This has sure been a day,” Jesse says. He steps close enough that he’s almost in danger of crushing the chips up against Saul’s chest. 

Is _this_ Jesse’s ‘other idea?’ Can’t be. Christ, the high has ascended to Saul’s spine now and it’s just pulsing through him, rolling through his bones and muscles and brain as he allows himself to acknowledge just _how much_ Jesse is in his personal space right now.

“A really good day,” Saul remarks, lame but content to let Jesse take this wherever he wants to. “I’d even venture a _great_ day.” 

Jesse takes a breath like he’s got something to say before looking Saul in the face again and changing course, shrinking back like he’s changed his mind, stepping away. And, oh God, it’s the Target aisle all over again. Saul is almost high enough to _watch_ his dreams slipping through his hands. _No -- not today, Saul. Carpe the goddamn diem._

In one movement, he noisily deposits all of the snacks back onto the counter and turns towards the retreating Jesse, managing to catch him gently by the arm. 

This time, it’s Jesse’s turn to look like he’s ready to apologize for what he’s about to say. He stops in his tracks, eyes pleading.

There’s a brief, yet agonizing pause between them until he speaks. “So. You wanna, like. You know. Uh, you..?” and Jesse rolls his hand through the air between them like something is going to materialize out of the air to assist him in getting this thought out. Jesse’s Adam’s apple bobs from a thick swallow. “Wanna fool around?” 

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, his expression changes to one of deep hurting. Jesse squeezes his eyes shut and massages the bridge of his nose out of embarrassment while Saul tries to process what’s just been proposed here.

“Fool around, like…” he ventures warily.

And Christ -- it really _is_ like the Target aisle. Oh, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, how the tables have turned. Never in a hundred lifetimes did Saul think they’d be at a juncture where _he’s_ the one playing dumb. Jesse presses the full heel of his hand to the bridge of his nose now, as if he can’t get enough pressure on the point to actually convince himself that he’s said what he’s said out loud. God bless his poor little heart.

“Nah, nevermind, sorry, I --” 

Then he’s turning again, damn him, ready to slink out of his kitchen with his figurative tail between his legs as if he hasn’t said the _magic fucking words_ to Saul just now. 

“Hey, hey, no, I -- yeah!” Saul is scrambling to stop the retreat, his filter far too gone to even play it cool and pretend like this isn’t something he’s lusted over for several weeks. He finds it hard to catch himself in the naked act of it. “Jesse, c’mon --” 

Jesse whirls around again, looking skeptical and waiting beneath the fringe of eagerness. That’s… fair, Saul thinks. He’d _sort of_ made the first move here -- and Saul’s going to have to step up the confidence level to close the gap between them at this point. He gathers what he can of his full consciousness and takes a pace forward, intruding in Jesse’s personal space again, and trying to channel all of his stoned energy into being cocksure and charming. His voice has lowered on its own accord to something between a rumble and husky whisper just for the occasion. 

“Can I kiss you, Jesse?” 

Emotions war across the kid’s face, spanning from a brief look of incredulous anger to helpless acceptance. And Saul knows that defeated, yes-my-life-has-reached-a-rock-bottom-point-where-I-would-consider-kissing-the-likes-of- _you_ look. How winning it always was, and forever is. _Still got it,_ he thinks. 

Instead of waiting around for his questionable life choices to be resolved for him, though, Jesse stands on tiptoe, squeezes his eyes shut, and presses his lips firmly against Saul’s.


End file.
